The Mirror

6:22AM, four hours later and two minutes exactly, or four and two, and these are things that one cannot imagine or invent—and I return well-rested, having composed a new one in my sleep, and this time in the same sweater, but with my jeans of starchy Japanese denim, for this one piece requires a touch of professionalism, and that the pants stay on.

Oh!—where to begin, and how to say this, so dreamy, so awkward, so wrong, but did I send my writings to my cousin, female, whom I wrote about prior, and did she like them!, and respond to me enthusiastic. And it turns out women can read after all!—and who knew it, but I alone can write.

So I thanked her and showed grace, and I told her I was glad she was out of the company of the boy whom she saw—and I lay in bed, later, and wondered, and asked whether I did not want her for myself, and was there one in this damned world who deserves her?—but I have not met him.

Thus, I wondered, and perhaps, were she blonde and not my cousin, would I feel about her more different—and Einstein took the wife-as-cousin model, and I am greater than he, so I leave to him what he touched, and curse it with my words, hateful and spiteful, flames from the mouth of the dragon, terrible and ferocious upon this wealth of wit and wisdom I am tasked to defend.

Thus, do the pants stay on for this one, and it is none-the-less a love letter to a woman in my life whom I hold most dear, and to a man whom she finds that may have my blessing, for I cannot see and bear one harm a part of my Divine being, as I see she. That is, I see she is part of myself, and thought of woman makes a man tongue-tied—and all the more awkward, when he must send this to her, afterwards, but let us turn to a new subject, for this embarrasses me.

And did I turn to Christ!—and vanquish him, calling him arrogant, and in a word dismissing the entirety of Christianity as being incomplete. So, let me continue, for upon the graves of my enemies do I dance, shameless and complete in my victory—I who parade my victims through the streets and narrow alleyways of my enormous and unparalleled mind, like Caesar did his Vircingetorix.

Let me call him talentless!—he who walked upon the Earth and said a few words, of those half of which were boring, then let the others around him do the dirty work of spreading the message, whom he called apostles, and who posed like a model on the Cross.

What, that is all, and in a life, you have lived and done no more, and I am to worship your figure? So, let us break in half this tradition—and I offer an image stronger and more secure, and I am the most handsome man, perhaps, on this planet, and I make this case strong.

I offer, instead of the cross, the mirror-selfie—the man who looks upon himself in all his shame and his glory, who captures in his photograph a moment eternal, who studies and introspects and in a lifetime of profound thought and reflection, delivers to the world a pose and a message, all in one package of bytes, neatly tied and delivered by the iPhone, created by a man whom he loves dear—humble, pretentious, arrogant in his simplicity, and all of this together.

And for now!—must you simply take my word for it, because I am yet working on the systems and the servers for my clothing line, and I must connect with APIs for Stripe and Printful and the rest, and test, and observe, and monitor—but soon, shall you see and judge for yourself!

And better or worse, I say better, and you may say worse, I am original and different, and that makes me better, already—and all the more so, that you may consider me, in the first place, to be an equal among Gods and Heavenly creatures. But I am one, so there is no shame in this.

Do you want a stronger image than the Cross?—then I give you the man of self-reflection. He who has looked in the mirror and survived!–and soon, may I share this too, my image of this ideal, refined and honed into a simple, not-so-perfect, perfection.